#liter

There are citrus peels and rinds split between my thumbs from the last moment I cut open a coincidence, the last minute I decoupled an agonistic benefit, squished veiny tendons and tenders, felt the pain numbered by slices. Without faith, we ought to allow ourselves this supposed choice, a moral concentrate running down to the elbow’s edge as it squashes, lapped up for one tonging the juice. There is reality to believe. To taste it, there is the vice of our sensations, and it is orange when I’d like it to be. It can be marigold, violet, vermillion speckled absence, and tingling sexual mirth. It can be blood, dropped cream, a sunburn broiling under labor. Ogling, bettering, piercing, whilst the rest is made up without the touch, and there is no question about the quality of urge.